


Ashes in the Snow

by sass_bot



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Action/Adventure, Asexual Relationship, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Lovers to enemies to lovers, Major Original Character(s), Original Character Companions, Platonic Relationships, Slow Burn, Trans Inquisitor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-22
Updated: 2018-06-22
Packaged: 2019-04-06 13:43:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14058216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sass_bot/pseuds/sass_bot
Summary: Areina is not a fighter, she's an archaeologist. So when she agrees to help close the breach and defeat the would-be god that threatens to destroy all of Thedas, she knows she's bitten off a lot more than she can chew.Not to mention the fact that her Inquisition has arrested the controversial Hero of Ferelden for conspiracy to murder the Divine, all of Southen Thedas is tutting at her for befriending the rebel mages, and everything she has ever believed in is collapsing around her.On the bright side, being the leader of a heretical Inquisition means going to a lot of old temples and all the dusty old books and artifacts she can get her hands on.And the company isn't so bad either.





	1. Prologue - Footsteps on a Mountain

A menacing wind howls as it travels over the sculpted mountains of the Frostback. Strong immovable pine trees quake under the weight of the snow piled over them. Under the blinding light of the morning sun, the Temple of Sacred Ashes stands proudly, surrounded by hundreds of clerics, decked in the traditional red and white colors of the Andrastian Chantry. Their horsemen and guards are standing by, crowding the courtyard outside of the temple.

The anxious buzzing of voices is unmistakable even several miles away from the conclave. Even now, more and more people are making the trek through the mountains towards the temple, as organized lines of templar knights and even some mages are gathering to meet with Divine Justinia.

With all the excitement around, it’s not surprising that two Dalish women have managed to remain undetected on the premises of the temple. The two elves are standing in the shadows of a statue of Andraste’s champion, Shartan, so they aren’t exactly being subtle. Perhaps it’s a testament to how oblivious humans are, that even when they see two Dalish elves, faces painted in vallaslin, wearing traditional Dalish armor, they will still assume they are looking at servants.

The taller of the two elves is all but bouncing in glee at the thought of being so close to such an ancient temple. Every stone is steeped in history, and even as her fingers brush over the enduring bricks of the walls, she feels as though she’s touching hands with Andraste herself.

The second elf is less amused, her eyes darting around at the outpouring of shemlen. It’s not exactly the most comfortable atmosphere, considering the fact that the mages and templars are still at war, and their Divine thought it would be a great idea to bring the two most volatile groups in southern Thedas to the same place at the same time to “talk”. She can only imagine how that will go, which is why she couldn’t let her younger mage sister spy on the conclave alone.

“Eiry, I think this place has another entrance. Do you wanna check out the inside before it’s full of shems?” the tall one suggests, an excited grin on her face.

Eiry, or rather Eirwa, sighs and tears her wary eyes away from the bustling crowd. Her brow is tight as she addresses her sister. “That sounds dangerous, Rey. If the shems catch us in there… you’re a _mage_! You know what those brainwashed Chantry brutes do to mages.”

“Oh, please, Eiry! Please! I promise just a quick look and we’re out!” Rey, or rather Areina, begs, her violet eyes widening like an eager child’s.

Trying to maintain an illusion of authority as she speaks, Eirwa replies, “Show me this side entrance first. Then I’ll decide if it’s dangerous or not. You’re the First now, Rey, and you need to take care of yourself.”

Areina all but leaps at her older sister, pulling her into a tight embrace and burying her face in her tight brown curls, taking in Eirwa’s scent, fragrant vanilla oil, pine, and dirt. “I know! And thank you!”

“Hey! I didn’t say I agreed yet!” Eirwa says, wrapping her arms weakly around Areina.

Areina leads her along the western wall of the temple, her fingers passing idly over the bricks almost like she can’t bear to break contact with the building. Her feet silently leave marks in the snow behind her as she approaches a part of the temple wall that had collapsed to form a tunnel.

“How did you even find out about this?” Eirwa asks. She observes the structure suspiciously and then looks around the area. “Why aren’t there any shems around here?”

“I don’t know, but this hole was practically made for snooping,” Areina remarks.

Eirwa frowns. “You’re right. It does look like it was made for snooping.”

“What’s wrong?” Areina’s expression drops when she sees the look on Eirwa’s face.

“I don’t trust it,” she says. “Someone made this on purpose.”

“On purpose?”

“Creators! Are you that oblivious? I’m saying that with high-profile gathering of important shemlen in the middle of a civil war, do you really think someone is going to pass up the opportunity to do something stupid?”

And of course, this doesn’t occur to young Areina, whose head has been in the clouds from the moment she was born. Eirwa can feel her blood pressure rising as she stares her sister down. “I am not letting you go in there. We need to leave this place. _Now_.”

“Eiry, there are templars everywhere! And I bet there are some inside the temple, too. It’ll be fine! Just a quick look and then we’re out.” Areina’s tone gets more desperate and she pouts her lips to garner sympathy from the tight-lipped Eirwa.

“No. Just three years ago, a mage blew up the Kirkwall Chantry to kill the grand cleric. I don’t want to be here if that happens again.” Eirwa reaches for her sister’s arm, but Areina flinches away.

“Did you hear that?” Areina jerks her head around and moves towards the hole in the wall. “It sounds like someone’s in trouble.”

With an exasperated groan, Eirwa says, “It sounds like our cue to leave and let these shems kill each other. We saw what we needed to see. Now, come on!” Nevertheless, she also approaches the hole, gazing into the dark tunnel ahead. It appears as though it goes on and on without an end, though it must at some point lead into the temple itself.

This time, Eirwa can actually hear the sound that had snatched Areina’s attention. It’s shrill and carries with it a dark desperation that echoes softly against the tunnel walls. It pulls at a sense of justice within them, beckoning them to trek further in.

_“Someone! Help me!”_

 

* * *

 

Grimy darkness fills Areina’s vision as she comes to in the middle of what looks to be a small dungeon. The floor is damp and cold against her bottom, making her stomach turn uncomfortably. Voices echo around, some right at her ear and some further away.

“Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now.”

She feels a tightness in the flesh of her left palm and glances down, slowly uncurling her fingers and revealing a scar that runs along the crease that bisects her palm. As though it were sensing her gaze, the scar flares with emerald lights like magic, bringing a sharp, punishing pain with it. It feels as though someone had thrust a sword through her open palm.

“The conclave is destroyed. Everyone who attended is dead.” The woman speaking to Areina is a heavily armored human with her dark hair braided into a crown upon her head. Her voice is calm, like water boiling under a low heat, but her eyes are bubbling with hot rage. “Except for you.”

Areina’s mind is a fog, her memory so scrambled that she can scarcely even remember her and Eirwa’s long journey through the mountains. She doesn’t even know if she’s still in the mountains, and she certainly doesn’t know why she’s in handcuffs surrounded by angry humans. All she knows is that wherever Keeper Deshanna is, she’s not happy with her.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After agonizing over this for a good two months, I decided to finally post my Inquisitor's story, because if I don't, who will?  
> Plus I heard the kids these days like slow burn solavellan or something.


	2. The Rogue Storyteller

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I REALLY hate rewriting cutscenes, so I tried my best to avoid rewriting stuff (tho some of it was inevitable)
> 
> Also a couple of my own OCs show up here. I have like... an entire Dragon Age extended universe running here, but you don't need to know anything about it to understand this story, and I will thoroughly explain what's going on and who my OCs are when they do show up.

The shade goes down with an unholy screech as a well-aimed bolt goes through its misshapen eye socket. It crumbles into a pile of dust and rags, which blow away with a gust of cold air. Just above it, energy cracks and ripples as even more demons push their way through what one bald elven apostate has identified as a “fade rift”

Varric begins to prepare Bianca for another shot. He gingerly loads her, fingering her trigger eagerly. She reacts beautifully to his touch as he fells yet another demon. This one had been inching towards one of the soldiers fighting alongside him.

“Watch your flank, Golden Boy,” Varric calls out to the man, saluting him when they meet eyes across the battlefield.

With a good natured grin, the soldier, one of Cullen’s ex-templars, Cedric, waves his sword arm, all the while batting another demon away with his shield. “Nice shot, dwarf!”

The clearing is cast in an eerie green light, almost as though the entire area were thrust into the Fade. Varric, being a dwarf, has only once been to the Fade (not by choice), and would never go back there if he could help it. Though, with that giant breach in the sky, things are getting more and more fucked by the minute. Compared to this mess, Blondie blowing up the Kirkwall Chantry seems more like a harmless dalliance.

For a moment, the soldiers have some time to catch their breath as they strike down the last of this wave of demons, but the rift pulses with the promise of more. Varric eyes the clearing, quietly counting the soldiers. Most of them seem to be alive, although some are not quite so lucky. Shit.

Of the people still alive, he counts Captain Cedric, who is being fussed over by a tall, slender mage with hair like spun gold -his wife, Miriam, who had fervently refused to be left out of the battle. She’s a powerful mage, too. It’s probably the Amell genes -Varric would know.

Crouching by a wounded soldier, he spots the aforementioned elven apostate, a man going by the name Solas. Solas is a decent healer and another damn skilled mage, and no matter where he came from, Varric is just glad he’s on their side.

“Stand ready, men!” Cedric calls out to his people. “Another wave of demons is breaking through!”

Varric strokes Bianca tenderly as he watches the rift expand and shoot out magical discharge. He winces as a bolt of magic narrowly misses his moneymaker, making the stubble on his chin bristle uncomfortably.

“Son of a bitch,” he mumbles, leaping out of the way of the shade that has just materialized behind him. He watches as the creature stops in its tracks and implodes, scraps of it flying away like fireworks. The sight makes him gag slightly. He’s killed his fair share of demons, but crossbow bolt to the face seems like a much more pleasant way to die.

He feels a well-manicured hand on his arm and allows himself to be pulled to his feet by Miriam. “Do be careful, darling.” she says with an unassuming expression on her face.

“You’re a terrifying woman, you know that?” Varric remarks appreciatively, dusting the snow off of his pants.

Miriam covers her lips in mock abashment and playfully replies, “Oh, Varric! You know I’m a married woman. You can’t just say things like that!”

Varric chuckles and tells her, “Lady Amell, you know I only have eyes for Bianca.” He lifts Bianca up and aims her again, dragging his fingers sensually along her body, making sure he caught every single beautiful curve. His fingers lovingly slip onto her trigger, watching her tighten and then release.

He notices that his raunchy display has caught Solas’s eye and grins, causing the apostate to scrunch his nose in distaste, which Varric only finds more amusing. He watches the mage gracefully wave his staff in an arc and freeze an entire row of demons only to, with less grace, jab his staff behind him at a shade that attempts to sneak up on him.

Varric and the others continue striking down the demons and, like an open faucet, the rift keeps sending out more. It almost seems like a lost fight when they hear a familiar battle cry. A tank of a woman bursts into the clearing, destroying at least half a dozen demons all at once with one swift yet powerful swing of her blade. Cassandra is a force of nature, repelling demons like a whirlwind. She's causing such a stir that nearly nobody notices the lanky elf clumsily casting spells behind her.

Varric recognizes the elf as the one who had fallen out of a rift. It's hard not to recognize her with her plaited white hair that contrasts sharply with the rich brown tones of her skin -oh, and that glowing green mark on on her hand. The nearby rift seems to be making the girl’s mark pulse in sync.

Areina favors ice spells, sending a chill through the already icy air as she fends off a group of shades and wisps which have grown attracted to the mysterious magic emanating from her mark. This strange shift in the demons’ focus offers a sense of relief to the soldiers who are no longer being hit with their overpowering onslaught. However, it now falls to them to keep Areina alive, as she stumbles over her feet trying to keep up with the overbearing force. The lack of awareness gives the tired soldiers a great advantage as they begin to strike the demons down, carving their way through to Areina.

It's not hard to tell from her pained grimace and her shaking that the girl is terrified. She's like the eye of a storm with loose strands of her ivory hair whirling around her face like ice. The rift ripples above her tempestuously, and she watches the phenomenon with wide doe-like eyes.

“Quickly, before more come through!” Solas hollers, snatching her left wrist and pointing the mark at the rift. The mark reacts violently, connecting with the rift by a beam of crackling emerald light.

Varric settles beside Cedric and Miriam, and the three of them watch in awe as the mark on Areina’s hand eats at the rift until it's nothing more but an echo of what it was. A blanket of relief falls over the clearing once it's gone.

“Maker’s breath…” Cedric says breathlessly. Miriam links her arm with his, leaning slightly against him silently and watching thoughtfully.

Areina flinches away from Solas, rubbing her wrist and frowning slightly. “What did you do?” she asks.

“I did nothing,” he remarks. “The credit is yours.”

Instinctively, she looks down at her left palm, eyeing it warily. It has stopped pulsing, but still buzzed anxiously into her skin. “You mean…”

Ever eager to explain whatever the hell is going on, Solas says, “Whatever magic opened the Breach in the sky also placed that mark upon your hand.” Areina watches him intently. “I theorized the mark might be able to close the rifts that have opened in the Breach’s wake -and it seems I was correct.” Varric isn’t sure if he misheard, but there seems to be a hint of vindication in Solas’s tone.

At Varric’s side, Cedric and Miriam take this as their cue to leave. Miriam squeezes Varric's shoulder and blows him a kiss as she and her husband go off in the direction of the forward camp.

“Meaning it could also close the Breach itself?” Cassandra questions.

“Possibly,” Solas tells her and then turns to Areina. “It seems you hold the key to our salvation.” Way to pile on the pressure; the girl already looks like she's ready to pass out.

“Good to know,” Varric steps in, giving the girl one of his charming smiles. “Here I thought we'd be ass-deep in demons forever.” Areina glances down at him curiously. “Varric Tethras: Rogue, storyteller, and _occasionally_ unwelcome tagalong.”

He catches the Seeker giving him a very unwelcoming look, which Areina completely doesn't notice. “Are you… with the Chantry or…?” It seems like she realizes her mistake halfway through her question.

Solas impulsively chuckles. “Was that a serious question?”

Varric’s eyes soften at the clueless look on her face. “Technically I'm a prisoner, just like you.”

Cassandra barrels in between them -y’know… as she does -with an irritated exp- You know, let's just agree that Cassandra _always_ has irritated expressions on her face ranging from mildly uncomfortable to absolutely enraged, and let's just remember that little tidbit so we can avoid redundant statements like that in the future.

“I brought you here to tell your story to the Divine. Clearly that is no longer necessary.”

“Yet, here I am. Lucky for you, considering current events.” Varric tightens his gloves and looks knowingly at Areina. _See what I gotta deal with, kiddo?_

“It's really nice to meet you, Varric!” she says, eagerly giving him her hand to shake.

“You may reconsider that stance, in time,” Solas quips dryly. He seems to share that charming quality with Broody.

Varric snorts in amusement. “Aww, I'm sure we'll become great friends in the valley, Chuckles.”

In a very Cassandra-like manner, Cassandra, _shockingly_ , objects. “Absolutely not!” she huffs. “Your help is appreciated, Varric, but-”

He decides to say this very calmly and rationally so as not to risk a boot to the head. “Have you been in the valley lately, Seeker? Your soldiers aren't in control. You need me.” This statement only earns him a disgusted grunt, which is definitely better than being threatened with bodily harm, so he'll call that a victory.

Solas attempts to lighten the mood by introducing himself and hitting poor Areina with the most charming thing you can really tell a girl after she nearly gets killed by a swarm of demons: “I am pleased to see you still live.”

“He means, ‘I kept that mark from killing you while you slept.’” Varric adds helpfully.

Areina shifts in place awkwardly, idly running her fingers over her scar. “Thank you for that, Solas.” she replies sweetly.

“Thank me if we manage to close the Breach without killing you in the process.” With all that boundless optimism, it's a wonder why he’s still single.

At this point, Varric zones out a bit as Solas begins to talk more about the mark’s power. Areina is a mage herself, but even _she_ seems overwhelmed to say the least. He can't help but feel sorry for the kid. She clearly didn't ask for this, whether or not Cassandra believes her story.

“Well, Bianca’s excited!” he pipes up, getting Areina's attention.

“Bianca?” she asks raising an eyebrow. “Do you mean your crossbow?”

Pleased to finally be talking about something other than magical marks, he raises Bianca with a flourish. “Isn't she a beauty? She and I have been through a lot together.”

The two of them fall into step, letting Cassandra lead the way down the bank. They may have their differences, but Varric is glad he's got her sturdy form standing between him and all the demons.

“So, what's your story, Lavellan?” he asks her, tearing her attention away from her mark again. She keeps opening her palm, transfixed by it, almost as though the scar were speaking to her in voice that only she can hear.

“I’m Dalish,” she replies absentmindedly, getting a loud snort out of Solas.

“Alright, sweetheart,” Varric replies with a chuckle of his own. “Whereabouts are you from?”

“My clan is from the Free Marches,” she tells him.

“So you’re a long way from home, aren’t you?”

She lets out a shuddering sigh. “Yeah. I just hope my sister is okay. She came here with me...”

He feels a twinge in his chest and groans. He’s written enough tragedies to know this story doesn’t have a happy ending.

“I take it you’re the First of your clan,” Solas remarks. “The Dalish don’t often let their First go off on their own without protection.”

Areina nods. “It sounds like you know a bit about the Dalish.”

“I have wandered many roads in my time, and crossed paths with your people on more than one occasion,” he says dryly.

“Oh?” She perks up, her gaze curiously roaming towards Solas. “How have you crossed paths with us?”

“I mean that I offered to share knowledge, only to be attacked for no greater reason than their superstition.” he replies sharply, shooting her down, because of course he would. There’s a reason Varric calls him “Chuckles”.

Varric rolls his eyes. “Can’t you elves just play nice for once?” Areina remains quiet after the exchange, her shoulders stiffening and her arms wrapping around her body protectively. He decides not to probe her further after that.

The rest of their trek through the mountains has them encountering much more demons, and it’s all they can do to keep Areina alive. Her footwork is incredibly clumsy and so is her casting. Her spells, when they hit their intended targets, are incredibly powerful, but her nerves are definitely getting the best of her.

She grunts loudly as she dodges a blow from a shade and swings her staff at its hooded head. It takes a few jabs to get the creature to die -as well as a strategically timed crossbow bolt from Varric.

She’s panting heavily by the time the battlefield is empty enough for her to attempt closing the rift just outside of the forward camp. She doesn’t need further prompting from Solas to raise her mark to the sky and close the rift. The pressure in the air eases as soon as the sky is clear again.

“We are clear for the moment. Well done.” Solas says breathlessly.

Areina doesn’t reply, tightly gripping her left wrist; the fingers of her left hand are quivering slightly. She isn’t complaining, but she’s clearly having a hard time keeping up with Varric, Cassandra, and Solas, all of whom are clearly more experienced fighters.

“You alright, kiddo?” Varric asks her quietly. “I won’t tell Cassandra if you say ‘No’”

She looks down at him through glazed violet eyes and he almost catches a smile on her face. “I’m just tired,” she says in a reassuring tone, although he’s not quite sure whether she’s trying to reassure him or herself.

The four of them are allowed through the gates and enter the forward camp, located on what appears to be a wide bridge. Every part of the camp is crowded with crates of equipment, wounded soldiers and medics, and tents; it’s hard to even walk through without stepping on someone else’s feet. At the center of the camp, they see Leliana arguing with a Chantry cleric. The man clearly has no regard for his surroundings as his voice rings out clearly in the icy air, easily audible over the sounds of the idle chatter of the soldiers.

Varric eyes each corpse they pass, identifiable by the linen shrouds they’re enveloped in. These people had families and friends -shit, he may have even had drinks with some of these people in Haven after the explosion at the conclave. He can tell the macabre sight hasn’t escaped Areina’s notice either. She’s trying to hide it, but her face is painted with both vallaslin and utter horror. She has a rather expressive face, he notes (she would make a great protagonist for a novel). He gives her a pat on the back, drawing her attention away.

“Ah! Here they are!” The cleric’s statement is accented by a gust of frosty wind.

Leliana looks up at the group. “You made it. Chancellor Roderick, this is–”

“I know who she is.” Roderick interrupts her with an ugly scowl on his face, and a withered finger shaking in young Areina’s direction. “As Grand Chancellor of the Chantry, I hereby order you to take this criminal to Val Royeaux to face execution.”

Cassandra straightens up and takes a few menacing steps towards him. “'Order me’? You are a glorified clerk. A bureaucrat!” she snaps at him. Varric has to give the man props, though -he has Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast towering over him, showering him with her deadly aura and he doesn’t even have the sense to flinch back a few steps. The man is either crazy brave or crazy stupid.

“And you are a thug, but a thug who supposedly serves the Chantry!” he snaps back, causing Varric to flinch slightly.

“We serve the Most Holy, Chancellor, as you well know.” Leliana interjects, her cool blue eyes fixed on Roderick.

“Justinia is dead! We must elect her replacement, and obey _her_ orders on the matter.” Roderick insists.

“Are you _serious_?” Areina’s exasperated voice cuts in. “There is a hole in the sky and you don’t even care?”

“ _You_ brought this on us in the first place!” he argues in his rumbling voice.

Varric sighs and rubs the back of his neck as Roderick continues to bark at Leliana, Cassandra, and Areina.

Areina hunches over, breathing shallowly and squeezing her left wrist in pain, and sure enough, when Varric looks up, the Breach has expanded. Solas doesn’t have to say anything for Varric to know that this thing is still killing her. He can’t say this enough but, _poor kid…_

“How do _you_ think we should proceed?” Cassandra asks.

Suppressing a hiss of pain, Areina straightens up and glances around at a distant mountain. “I think we should use the mountain path. That Breach won’t be closed unless we work together.”

Cassandra doesn’t give anyone time to argue, eager as she is to get going.  “Leliana. Bring everyone left in the valley. Everyone.”

Roderick, whose death wish is written plainly on the front of his sterling white Chantry robes in a large cursive script, glares at her back as she leads her party out of camp. “On your head be the consequences, Seeker.”


	3. Powerful Answers

Keeper Deshanna is a very old woman, with thin, grey hair that looks like it’s attached to her head by pure faith. She has small, yet knowing, eyes that follow you wherever you are. She is the kind of woman that could spend all day just watching her people, mentally following their footsteps and silently noting the invisible patterns they left against the dirt. Sometimes Areina and her siblings wondered if she even slept.

It’s a legend among the youth of Clan Lavellan, that Deshanna Istimaethoriel Lavellan has been alive since the time of Arlathan. Areina always fancied the idea that her Keeper had been friends with the goddess Mythal in a time before the Evanuris was sealed away by the Dread Wolf so long ago -she did, after all, bear the intricate patterns of the vallaslin of Mythal upon her face. Perhaps she’s seen firsthand the horror Fen’harel brought and has been keeping him away from Clan Lavellan ever since. Her parents would always laugh off the theory, but what do adults know, really?

Of course, being the Keeper’s First, it eventually fell to Areina to find out the truth, and, well, solving mysteries just happened to be her favorite thing to do. She had been a diligent student, at least at first, but it eventually got harder and harder to pretend to be interested in practicing magic when all Areina really wanted to know was whether or not the Keeper bore an ancient elven secret that she kept hidden from the rest of the clan.

One day, Areina simply asked her point-blank if she had ever personally been acquainted with any of the Evanuris, fully expecting her to brush off the question and continue with her training, but the answer she got instead is one that she will never forget.

“Powerful answers are like powerful magic -and I am much too old and weak to give you the answers you desire, Da’len. But perhaps if you train well, you may find what you’re looking for without my help.”

It’s just like Keeper Deshanna to be cryptic and vague; she’s too old (and perhaps a bit senile) to be straightforward. However, it is still an answer that has stuck with Areina, and when she looks at the Breach in the sky and the fade rifts bleeding demons into their world, she finds herself at the center of another mystery. She wonders what Keeper Deshanna would tell her at a time like this.

It’s indescribable the raw magic of the Fade, pouring out of the rift and licking at Areina’s fingertips. It begs her to give it refuge, just a taste, just a small sip of power. It feels like everything the Keeper has warned her about, and it’s both electrifying and terrifying. She grunts, willing the flow of energy to reverse, to go back into the Fade where it belongs. It’s easier than it feels like it should be, like she’s drawing on the power of something old, something that doesn’t belong to her.

It’s a marvel to watch Areina lift her hand up to the sky and magic fade rifts out of existence. One moment, the atmosphere is expanding and contracting with the rift at its center, reality itself is rippling like water around a stone, and in the next moment, they can breathe again, the rift is gone, and the sky is blue again.

“Sealed, as before. You are becoming quite proficient at this.” Solas remarks with a coy smile on his face.

“Let’s hope it works on the big one,” Varric says, idly tweaking Bianca.

Cassandra grabs the forearm of one of the scouts who had fallen in the battle and lifts the woman to her feet.  

“Thank the Maker you finally arrived, Lady Cassandra. I don’t think we could have held out much longer.” the scout tells her, a grateful smile showing through her helmet.

“Thank our prisoner, Lieutenant. She insisted we come this way.” Cassandra replies, eyeing Areina, who is leaning against her staff and trying to catch her breath. She can’t help but smile upon hearing this; it’s clear that Cassandra still suspects her, but that she’s willing to lend her the benefit of the doubt gives her no small measure of comfort.

“The prisoner? Then you…?”

“I’m glad you’re alright,” Areina says, extending a friendly hand. “I’m Areina.”

The Lieutenant glances hesitantly at her, almost as if to make sure that the hand she’s got out is the one without the mark, but then the reluctance eases and she envelops Areina’s hand in both of hers, nodding gratefully. “I’m Deanne and that’s Squigs, Janan, and Leith.” Deanne nods in the direction of each of her companions: another human woman, furiously cleaning off her daggers, an elven archer fiddling with their bow, and a human man with an injured leg, using his greatsword for support. “You have my sincere gratitude.”

Areina feels herself swell up with pride. While she can’t honestly say she deserves this praise, it still warms her heart that her decision has managed to save these people’s lives. It’s almost fair to say that in the few hours she’d been travelling with Cassandra, Solas, and Varric, she has managed to save more lives than she has in the other twenty-five years of her life. Granted, this is only true if she _wasn’t_ the one who blew up the conclave. She wants to believe that she isn’t guilty, but she can’t remember anything from before her interrogation, and that damning scar on her hand only makes her doubts louder.

“The way into the valley behind us is clear for the moment. Go, while you still can.” she orders the soldiers, who straighten up immediately and follow her command at once. Squigs and Janan dash off towards the mine while Deanne half carries the limping Leith along with her.

Squigs, a human woman clad in bloodied leathers with a long dirty braid going down her shoulder, turns around and waves at Areina’s group. “We owe you a drink, yeah?” she hollers from up on the hill. She’s got a huge smirk on her dirty face and Areina can’t help but giggle at the sight and give her a wave. She’s never really had a drink, but perhaps now isn’t the time to argue that.

 

* * *

“So… holes in the fade don’t just accidentally happen right?” Varric asks Solas as the group stumbles down the steep pathway towards the Temple of Sacred Ashes.

Solas, who is using his staff as a walking stick to keep his balance, replies thoughtfully, “If enough magic is brought to bear, it is possible.”

“But there are easier ways to make things explode.”

“That is true.”

“We will consider how this happened once the immediate danger is past.” Cassandra chimes in, placing a supportive hand on Areina’s back to usher her forward.

At the end of the path is a large step. Cassandra can already smell death and ashes in the air, and she doesn't need to look far to find the source of the scent. The casualties of the conclave explosion stand before her, some still kneeling as though they had been begging for mercy just moments before their deaths. Some still wear the same horrified faces they had when they were alive. That they still can't find Justinia’s charred corpse is both a tragedy and perhaps even a mercy.

She leaps down into the ruins of the temple courtyard. The snow beneath her boots is stained black with soot and ashes. She fights to still her heart. The corpses before her are mutilated beyond recognition, and still, she tries examining the faces, trying to match them with the faces she knew -the faces of her friends and loved ones.

“The Temple of Sacred Ashes.” Solas remarks as he also drops into the ruins, with Varric right behind him.

“What’s left of it.”

She turns towards Areina and finds her hesitant, standing at the top of the step and staring wide eyed at the carnage, almost like she’s trying to burn the sight into her memory. With a soft sigh, Cassandra lends her a hand to help get her down, which Areina takes graciously. “That is where you walked out the Fade and our soldiers found you. They said a woman was in the rift behind you. No one knows who she was.”

Areina takes a few careful steps forward, her eyes glued to the ground. “I'm sorry, Cassandra. I wish I could tell you what happened here; I wish I could remember.” Her voice breaks near the end and she inhales deeply through her nose, gagging at the strong stench that fills her nostrils.

Before Cassandra can reply, Varric speaks up. “Don't beat yourself up over it, kid.” He sounds reverent, and much less glib than he had been earlier.

The atmosphere is suffocating. Cassandra is no mage, but even she can sense the the essence of the fade strongly around them. The air feels ever so much colder against her skin as they enter the temple. It seeps through her clothes and taunts the tense muscles beneath.

“If you are innocent, then I _will_ find the one who is really responsible for this.” she promises, stomping past them and towards the temple.

 

* * *

The crater left behind by the blast is enormous. It gives the sense that the entire historical structure was simply swallowed by the void. Again, Cassandra can't help but think about how the blast managed to consume Justinia whole, without a shred of her remaining. Only the Divine and the Maker know what truly happened here.

This area is dark, almost as though the tragedy that had occurred has cast a shadow over the temple. There is a sealed rift just below them, but it looks to be leaking the fade into their world. Thankfully, it's not unstable enough to let demons through -at least for the moment.

“The Breach is a long way up…” Varric mumbles, his eyes glued to the sky.

As if prompted by Varric’s statement, the group finds Leliana and several of her soldiers behind them. She wears a relieved expression under her hood as she addresses Cassandra. Areina notes that Leliana is actually quite a lovely woman and looks to only be a few years older than Areina herself.

While Leliana and Cassandra strategize, Areina finds herself stepping further into the temple, standing at a ledge that overlooks the entire black crater. This place must be where the explosion originated. Even here, there are corpses watching her with sad, hollow eyes. It’s completely impossible to tell whether they’re human, elven, dwarven, or otherwise; any distinguishing features have been totally singed off.

“How did I survive _this_?” she asks nobody in particular, feeling her knees weaken. Did Eirwa survive this? If she did, then she must be looking for Areina. They’ll find each other; they always do.

She jumps when she hears a soft _clink_ against the stone ground, and she senses Solas’s benign presence beside her. “Whatever placed that mark on your hand also physically sent you into the Fade. Perhaps it was there that you avoided the blast that destroyed the temple.” His face is impassive, his distant blue eyes appear to be studying her facial features, running over her vallaslin like words on a page.

“Do you think it’s possible for anyone else to have survived the blast?” she asks, looking up at the sky.

The question catches Solas off-guard, and his voice gets lodged in his throat. “I… I don’t -”

Cassandra comes to his rescue, however, asserting her presence between the two elves. “Areina,” she calls out, bringing the young elf’s attention back to the present. “This is your chance to end this. Are you ready?”

“If you know how to get me up _there_ , I’m all ears,” Areina says, slowly blinking away the fatigue in her eyes. She hopes Cassandra hasn’t noticed.

“No. This rift was the first and is the key. Seal it, and perhaps we seal the Breach.” Solas tells them with a curt shake of his head.

“Then let’s find a way down. And be careful.” Cassandra says, leading the way down the ruined steps.

It’s a struggle for Areina to keep her balance as she descends and she’s grateful for Solas and Varric who make great efforts to keep her on her feet the entire time. She can’t help the way her knees wobble every time she looks over the ledge at the rift.

>   _“Now is the hour of our victory. Bring forth the sacrifice.”_

Her heart stops in her chest when she hears it -a deep and guttural voice that doesn’t in any way resemble her companions that comes from within the rift itself. Something about it sends shockwaves through her body and causes her heart to drop to the bottom of her gut.

Areina vaguely hears Cassandra ask, “What are we hearing?”

Solas’s reply comes promptly after. “At a guess: The person who created the Breach.”

Passing by a pair of Leliana’s archers, Areina hears Varric and Solas discussing the lyrium growing out of the crumbling stone walls. It’s as red as blood and reminds her of a carving she had once seen on the walls of an ancient Tevinter ruin that she had explored with her sisters. Eirwa had told her that the carvings reminded her of Fen’harel’s many eyes, and perhaps she’s right; this so-called red lyrium carries a similar sinisterness.

>    _“Keep the sacrifice still.”_
> 
> _“Someone help me!”_

That voice again. It makes her head boil, like something that should be there is inexplicably missing. She wonders if this could be related to her missing memories and the scar on her hand that continues to throb as the Breach grows.

“That is Divine Justinia’s voice!” Cassandra cries out just as they reach the bottom of the path. She almost frantically looks around for the source of the voice, but her efforts yield nothing.

Solas lends Areina a hand to help her jump down to the lower level of the temple and she accepts the assistance with a courteous nod. Just as she approaches the rift, a surge of pain runs from the scar on her hand to the tips of her fingers and all the way up her arm. She nearly loses control of her entire body, lurching forward and grabbing her left arm with her right hand in some effort to keep it from shaking.

>    _“Someone help me!”_
> 
> _“What’s going on here?”_

“That was your voice. Most Holy called out to you. But…” Cassandra trails off, at a total loss for words, and Areina can’t blame her; she hadn’t expected to hear her own voice either. There are many layers to this mystery and she isn’t even sure if she wants to solve this one.

The veil is so thin here that she can feel the fade rubbing against her skin, causing a chill to run down her spine. Her eyes are glued to the sealed rift above as two foggy figures materialize above, blinking in and out of existence like spirits. She recognizes neither of them, but can only assume that the one in the Chantry robe is Divine Justinia, the woman Areina has been accused of murdering. She’s being held up by a strange yet undoubtedly magical force. It twines around her arms like vines and squeezes them in a way that must be painful. The other figure is like the shadow of a shadow -a distant and vague shape almost purposefully obscuring itself from their vision.

A third spectre appears. Areina sees herself, all legs and no finesse, stumbling into view with that curious expression she always has on her face.

>   _“What’s going on here?”_

Justinia’s head turns abruptly to face Areina’s spectre, her eyes wide and bloodshot. She has the look of a woman who knows she’s about to die, and yet her body can’t help but jitter involuntarily, whether out of fear or whether her body simply hadn’t caught up with her mind, it’s difficult to surmise the thoughts of a ghost.

> _“Run while you can! Warn them!”_
> 
> _“We have an intruder. Slay the elf.”_

There’s a stern sense of finality to the shrouded figure’s threat and, despite knowing that she did indeed survive that encounter, Areina can’t help but worry about the spectral version of her. With that, however, the vision ends in a flash of blinding light that causes everyone close to it to recoil.

Cassandra is quick to shoot questions at Areina, her voice getting more and more desperate with each new inquiry. “You were there! Who attacked? And the Divine, is she…? Was this vision true? What are we seeing?”

All Areina can do is gape at the sky where the spirits had once been standing. She lets out the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and replies. “I don’t remember…” And it’s true -she tries to remember what the Areina in the vision had been doing at the temple, but she can’t. She knows she and Eirwa had been sent by the clan to spy on the conclave, but she doesn’t remember actually entering the temple at all and she doesn’t remember where Eiry has gone either.

“Echoes of what happened here. The Fade bleeds into this place.” Solas explains, taking a few steps forward to stand by Areina’s side. She watches him inquisitively as he speaks. “This rift is not sealed, but it is closed… albeit temporarily. I believe with the mark, the rift can be opened and then sealed properly and safely. However, opening the rift will likely attract attention from the other side.” She instinctively looks down at her hand again.

Cassandra immediately calls out to Leliana and her men. “That means demons. Stand ready!”

With a deep breath, Areina tries to ground herself in the moment and remove all her doubts from her mind, a difficult task all things considered. There’s still so much she doesn’t understand and in this moment, she feels very much like Keeper Deshanna, sitting squarely in the center of a convoluted mystery. Perhaps the Keeper had been right in saying that powerful answers are like powerful magic… or maybe she only said that to get Areina to stop asking ridiculous questions and actually practice her casting. Either way, Areina could use some of that senile wisdom of hers right about now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thank you for reading :) If you enjoyed the chapter, consider leaving me a comment because they make me very happy!


	4. A Hero, a Drunk, and a Fugitive

Every time Areina closes a rift, the dark world gets just a bit brighter, Leliana notes, as Cassandra and Solas crowd around the young elf’s body. The power she must have expended to seal this rift in particular must have been immense, but Solas assures them that the girl will, in fact, live. She can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief at the thought. If those voices they heard were any indication, Divine Justinia’s murderer is still out there, and Areina just may be their only hope of stopping them and maybe even closing the Breach. What a heavy burden for such a young girl to bear.

Leliana herself must have been around Areina’s age when she volunteered to assist the the Grey Wardens with stopping the Blight almost a lifetime ago. She still remembers that version of herself, idealistic and foolish, with messy hair and bright eyes, wearing those  _ ugly _ Fereldan leather boots that were bought for her by her old lover. Months of companionship and struggles, and it all amounted in Leliana getting stabbed in the back by the very “hero” she vowed to help.

These are different times, however, and Leliana has long since put the past behind her. It still creeps up on her in whispers of regrets and long sighs, but her time serving the Divine has made it possible to heal and move forward. However, now that Justinia is dead, all of it comes rushing back. Justinia -no,  _ Dorothea _ , had been standing like a statue against the floodgates, arms outstretched with that same warm smile on her face, tiny wrinkles spidering away from her bright azure eyes  -and just like that, she’s gone, and Leliana has to stand alone.

Haven is bustling with activity, with villagers anxiously trying to get a look at the girl with the magical hand, the girl cast out of the Fade by a divine hand -the Herald of Andraste. But is she really the Maker’s answer to the deaths of his most faithful servants? A Dalish elf who likely doesn't even believe in Him?

Cassandra pushes through the faithful with magnificent force, causing the great sea of people to part and make room for Solas, who is cradling Areina in his arms like a limp doll. The party rushes through the village like a storm, heading towards the healer's cottage with purpose.

Leliana does not concern herself with them after arriving; Areina will live, so there is no point in dallying around her like she’s a fragile flower. Besides, Leliana has her own people to consider -brave people who risked their lives to find survivors in the aftermath of the conclave explosion. The workstation she has set up adjacent to the Haven chantry is already buried in reports, many of them, she knows, will not be pleasant to read. She will have to discuss the official death count with Cassandra, Cullen, and Josephine later, an inevitability that clings to her like a shadow.

“Sister Nightingale,” one of her scouts, the agent known simply as Squigs, bows her head respectfully. “We have reports of more survivors coming towards Haven.”

Leliana nods solemnly, bracing her hands against the table and looking down at the mountain of paperwork. “See if there are any available healers.”

Squigs shifts uncomfortably, causing Leliana’s steely gaze to hit her in full force. “Well, that’s not all. They’re Grey Wardens.”

“Grey Wardens?” Leliana repeats incredulously. “How many?”

“Just three, but one of them is injured badly.”

“Three wardens? Alone?” she mutters to herself, turning her gaze back to the papers on her desk. “Have the injured warden sent to a healer, and have the other two brought to me.”

 

* * *

Commander Cullen is a large, sturdy man. He wasn’t always. His hands are calloused under his leather gloves and he points them towards his men, barking out orders to get the relief efforts moving along. His voice is sharp and cuts through the confused atmosphere like a beacon in the dark. Between his men and Leliana’s, they have a small, but skilled group of people loyal to their cause and willing to lay down life and limb.

Honey brown eyes find the commander’s second in command, a Starkhaven man and fellow ex-templar named Rylen. He dashes over as soon as he’s beckoned, bowing his head and reporting his status briefly.

With a curt nod, Cullen dismisses him and turns to the next person urgently demanding his attention, the Lady Amell, clad in a large fur coat, her silky golden hair pinned around her head in intricate braids. She seems ready to make an appearance at the Winter Palace -all she’s missing is the mask really.

“Cully Wully,” she coos, caressing his face with one of her hands the way a distant aunt would at a family gathering. “What a  _ darling _ effort you’ve put into this small army of yours. You’re hardly the boy you were the last time we saw each other.”

Cullen sighs, rolling his eyes before saying, “I was a different person ten years ago, Lady Amell. And yet, you’ve remained the same.”

She titters musically, covering her lips with a gloved hand. “I was already perfection, my dear. Why change?”

He lets out a terse chuckle. “Was there something you needed?”

“Oh, it’s nothing, dear. I was simply making sure you’re alright. You’ve been straining that voice of yours all morning.”

He crosses his arms and raises his brow. “Is this your roundabout way of telling me you want me to… quiet down?” He wouldn’t be surprised at all if that were truly the case. Miriam had always had a manipulative way about her during the time he knew her at Kinloch Hold, back when the only title she held was “Mage”. It hadn’t been an inherently malicious sort of manipulation, but if Miriam wanted something, she would find a way to get it.

She gasps in mock horror. “Perish the thought, my dear. I merely wanted to make sure you were taken care of.”

“Worry about your husband then, my lady,” he tells her. “I will be alright when we’ve accounted for all the dead and wounded.”

She nods graciously at him, smiling at him with deep blue eyes as she slowly turns around and saunters off, making a show of the way her robes floated about her body. Somewhere under that egocentric facade there must be a normal human being -or a least, that’s what Cullen hopes for her husband’s sake.

“Commander!” a young man calls out to him. It’s always someone, isn’t it?

“Yes, is there something wrong?” Cullen asks, noting the anxious expression on the boy’s face. He barely fills up his armor and it causes the commander’s face to soften ever so slightly.

“There’s Grey Wardens at the gate. Their leader’s injured pretty badly, but they refuse come inside,” the boy reports.

Sure enough, Cullen can hear a commotion coming from the direction of the main gates. He sighs, thanks the boy, and makes his way over. Why would Grey Wardens be interested in the conclave in the first place?

“Watch it, kid. Don’t make me kick yer sodding ass,” a dwarven warden growls, shaking his fist at the group of scouts that had formed around him. 

“Ser, we have orders to bring you in for -” one of the scouts attempts to say, only to be interrupted by the dwarf again.

“Heh! And I have orders to shove my sodding boot up yer ass. How’s that sound?”

As Commander Cullen approaches the scene, he gets a better look at the three wardens. The loudest one, the dwarf, was a man with a heavily scarred face and a bright red beard that looks tangled and matted beyond all repair. He spots one human warden, a quiet man with a dark blonde beard carrying the smallest of the group, a small elf soaked in blood.

His heart drops to the bottom of his gut in recognition, but he attempts to keep his face firm and neutral as he steps in between his scouts and the volatile dwarf. “What’s going on here?”

“These thunder humpers don’t wanna help the  _ Hero of Ferelden _ , that’s what!” the dwarf complains, taking a menacing step towards Cullen. “If she  _ dies _ …”

Cullen sends a sharp glare at one of the scouts. “Show these men to our healers.”

“That’s the thing, Commander, Ser,” the recipient of the glare sputters. “They refuse to come any further than the gates.”

With a long sigh, Cullen runs a gloved hand down his face in fatigue. “We can’t heal the Hero of Ferelden if you don’t bring her into the village.”

The dwarf grunts. “No can do. We have direct orders from our Commander to go straight on back to Weisshaupt.”

Cullen glances back at the commander in question. Her petite body is limp in the blonde warden’s arms, and her legs from the knee down look like an indistinguishable mass of bone, flesh, and leather. Her eyes are tightly shut and it’s hard to tell whether she’s conscious or not, but her face is very pale, and arguing with the dwarf is only going to make her situation more dire.

“Your Commander is very nearly dead. Is now really the time?” he snaps at the dwarf.

“If she survives and finds out that me and this blighter here aren’t at Weisshaupt, she’ll skin the both of us and eat us for breakfast,” the dwarf replies firmly.

It’s clear the dwarf isn’t willing to budge on this, and his human friend has been suspiciously quiet, too, but now is not the time. “Fine. You may leave.”

“But, Ser,” a scout interjects. “Sister Nightingale said -”

Cullen groans impatiently and scoops the unconscious warden commander in his arms; her skin is cold to the touch and her body is heavier than he remembers. “Do you want to be the one to tell Sister Nightingale we let the Hero of Ferelden die because we were busy arguing with her companions?”

“She’s lost a lot of blood. You should hurry. She may need the limbs amputated,” he hears a hesitant voice call after him -the blonde human finally speaks. Something about his voice is familiar, but Cullen can’t quite place his finger on it. Nonetheless, he keeps the man’s comments in mind when he rushes her to Solas and Adan.

There’s something about that voice… 

Something…

He hands the warden commander over to one of the healers, hastily repeating the comment the blonde man had told him. The healer purses her lips in thought briefly before taking the warden into her arms and carrying her her into the makeshift clinic.

Cullen shivers and stretches his now empty arms over his head. The wind traveling through Haven is colder than death, and it’s a wonder the wardens had been able to survive long enough to deliver their injured commander to their doorstep. That blonde bearded one, the one who had warned him before he left, must have been a healer, a mage…

_ Wait… A healer and a mage? _

His eyes widen in realization and his body twists around abruptly as he finds himself jogging as quickly as he can back to the gates, his entire body exuding an aura of alarm. 

The Hero of Ferelden couldn’t have possibly…

No, of course she would. This isn’t the first time she’s surprised him, and it probably won’t be the last either.

Cullen is intercepted by one of his captains, Lady Amell’s husband, Cedric. “Commander, is something wrong?”

Cullen’s reply comes breathless and quick. “The two wardens that just left Haven. Find them! Quickly!”

 

* * *

Varric has only once met the Hero of Ferelden and it was on a day he counted among the worst of his life: the day Blondie blew up the Kirkwall chantry. Were his actions a long time coming? Yeah, maybe. Could the situation have been handled differently? Fuck, if he knows. Was the entire day an impossibly shitty fiasco? Absolutely. Quite frankly, the Hero of Ferelden showing up was just the cherry on top of the disaster cake that his life had become.

Here’s the scene. The Kikrwall chantry? In total ruin. Blondie? On his knees and ready for whatever judgement Hawke decides to pass. Hawke? Conflicted and angry. First Enchanter Orsino? Speechless for once. It’s raining fire and ashes; the tension in the air is so heavy you could cut it with a knife.

And out of bleeding nowhere,  _ she  _ shows up. Mind you, before this very moment, the Fereldan Commander of the Grey had been in hiding for three solid years. Everyone thought she was dead or worse, rotting in the blighted Deep Roads. Then she shows up in Kirkwall, on the very day that Blondie destroys the chantry. She’s got more beef on her arms than he imagined a mage would, and she’s lugging around a sword bigger than Broody’s.

The look on Blondie’s face when she holds her sword up to Hawke’s chest and demands that he be freed was the same kind of look you’d imagine a child would make when his mom tells him off in front his friends. Broody would have jumped out of his skin if Hawke hadn’t calmly told him to settle down.

In truth, Varric thinks Hawke was just relieved to have Blondie taken off her hands. Deciding your friend’s fate isn’t exactly the most comfortable situation, especially when half of your friends want him dead and the other half want him alive. So the Warden Commander took Blondie and hauled ass, and nobody would have believed that story if he put it in his book, so he didn’t -a convenient thing too, he realized, because he wouldn’t have had to tell the Seeker about it either.

Two Grey Wardens, now having dumped their blue uniforms in favor of nondescript mercenary armor, are standing beneath a cluster of pine trees with a golden-haired dwarf, most accurately characterized by his beautifully well-maintained chest hair and his golden tongue -in direct contrast with the second dwarf in the group who looks like he’s never bathed in his entire life and absolutely does not intend to. 

“I owe you one, Varric,” the blonde warden says to Varric, who’s leaning against a large pine tree and fiddling with his gloves. 

“No, you don’t, Anders,” Varric replies. “You’re just lucky my people found you before Leliana’s people did. They’ve got scouts all over the mountain looking for you.”

Anders smiles softly at his old friend. “Can you believe it took Cullen a full ten minutes to realize who I was?”

Anders’ red-haired dwarven companion, a portly fellow named Oghren, lets out a guffaw. “That blighter ain’t exactly the sharpest stone in the stack, huh?”

Varric let out a chuckle of his own. “Who? Curly? It took him six years to realize Hawke was a mage.” He shrugs and then shakes his head. “Terrible templar really. Not a bad commander though… at least, I hope.”

“I got a guy -Antivan fella -ready to meet us at the pass up north, close to Orzammar,” Oghren says, rolling his shoulders and neck. “Best not to keep him waiting.”

 

* * *

To say that Leliana is furious would be an understatement. If the warden commander were not on the brink of death, Leliana would at least have had someone to vent her fury at. Unfortunately, all she can do is glare daggers at the elf’s unconscious body as Adan and his healers clean her wounds and attempt to remove her boots, which at this point have fused with her legs. If Leliana had to guess, she’d say they were crushed in the explosion. The warden is lucky to be alive, and she’ll be lucky if she stays alive after Leliana is through with her.

She finds Cullen waiting for her outside of the clinic with hunched shoulders and tired eyes. He’s leaning against the wooden building and staring at the ground. It’s his fault the apostate got away, after all. No, Leliana can’t blame him for this as much as she would like to.

“I can’t believe Anya would bring Anders of all people to the conclave!” she snaps, bringing Cullen’s attention to her. “If she had  _ anything _ to do with Divine Justinia -”

“We don’t know that, Leliana,” Cassandra’s voice interrupts. The Divine’s Right Hand has been pacing in the vicinity for the better part of a half hour. “She saved Ferelden -no, not just Ferelden -all of Thedas from the Blight. Would she truly be involved in something like this? We will have to question her.”

Leliana sighs. Cassandra is right -far too optimistic, but right. Leliana once knew Anya Surana, the so-called Hero of Ferelden, quite intimately, but now? It is hard to say what she is capable of. What she does know, however, is that Anya is not really the Hero of Ferelden. That title belongs to the man who struck her down, the man who disappeared ten years ago after plunging his blade into the Archdemon’s neck, but perhaps it is best that history has forgotten him. It doesn’t matter now, she supposes, after all, the title of “Hero” was passed on to Anya eventually.

“That apostate murdered Grand Cleric Elthina and the sisters of the Kirkwall chantry,” Cullen reminds them. “Can we really put it past him to murder the Divine as well?”

Leliana has been mulling over the exact same idea in her head. Perhaps Anya had been a hero once, but the Blight has been over for ten years. The Inquisition will find out the truth, and if the “Hero of Ferelden” had anything to do with the Divine’s murder, she will answer for her crimes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quite a lot happened in this chapter and I've deviated a bit from the canon plot -but adding as many OCs as I did it was gonna eventually venture into AU territory
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter :)


	5. The Awakening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit of a slow chapter -lots of dialogue and exposition, but hey if you like solavellan, I've attempted, in my own primitive way, to write a smidge of romance in.

_“I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Fade_  
_For there is no darkness, nor death either, in the Maker's Light_  
_And nothing that He has wrought shall be lost._ ”

Leliana has been on her knees for so long that she can feel the chill of ice water against her greaves. She needs the Maker’s guidance now, perhaps more than ever -and yet she feels in her heart an emptiness, almost as if the Maker were gone -perhaps He was never there to begin with, and that is a thought that chills her more than the snow and ice ever could.

It has been an eventful few days for Leliana and her colleagues. Her scouts are still combing the mountains for Anders and his accomplice, but they’ve all but vanished right under their noses. She and Cullen have made efforts to keep their encounter a secret, but rumors get around, and before she knows it, Chancellor Roderick is using this failure to fuel his aggressive tirade against her, against Cassandra, and against the Inquisition. As if he or his broken Chantry and corrupt templars could do any better!

Areina has begrudgingly accepted her role in the inquisition. The more Leliana speaks to her, the more it seems like the girl is simply the most unfortunate elf in Thedas -stolen from the comfort of her clan and thrust into a holy conspiracy unlike any other. The implications of a Dalish elf of all people being accused of murdering the Most Holy are not lost on Leliana, and she trusts that Josephine will try her best to keep those accusations off of people’s lips.

Through all of this, however, she can’t help but sit anxiously in wait for Anya to awaken. She doesn’t quite know how to feel in the wake of her abrupt arrival and inexplicable ties to the most wanted apostate in Southern Thedas. She wants to believe that Anya is innocent, but the only way for that to be true is if Anders is innocent as well, which leaves the Inquisition in dire need of a suspect -or a scapegoat.

She feels as though the Hero of Ferelden, the woman asleep in the Haven clinic, is a complete stranger. Where she once could predict every word that came out of her soft, heart-shaped lips, every devious chuckle, every cocksure grin, she’s no longer so certain. She has heard rumors that Anya’s trauma from the blight had soured her and caused her to go mad, that this had been the reason she travelled to the Deep Roads on her Calling much earlier than most Grey Wardens. Part of her wonders if Anya would have disappeared had Leliana come back to her sooner. In the past, she often thought about how things would have changed if she’d had the courage to march into Amaranthine and reunite with the woman she loved, but the past is in the past, and at present, she can’t let her feelings get in the way of her investigation.

The noises Anya had made when Adan was operating on her were not natural, and when Leliana closes her eyes, she can clearly see her face, twisted in agony. Every single scream has etched a scar into Haven and scratched deep into the wall that is her resolve. Solas had attempted to ease Anya’s pain with magic, and perhaps it is to his credit that she still lives. Leliana has to keep reminding herself that everything has changed.

“Sister Leliana,” one of her agents calls her out of her meditation. “I've got news for you.”

“Report,” she orders. And so responsibility latches on to her coattails…

 

* * *

Solas would not consider himself a healer, but he has dipped his toe enough in creation magic that he can assist Adan and the other healers when the occasion calls for it. And with the damage that the explosion at the conclave has caused, the healers at Haven have their hands full. Not to mention the fact that his expertise has been invaluable in keeping their “Herald” alive.

He hears a whine of pain from the cot in front of him, where the famed Hero of Ferelden lies, fitfully fidgeting in her sleep. Haven is freezing, but sweat is streaming down Anya’s face. Solas dips a washcloth in cool water, squeezes it, then gently presses it against her brow.

He frowns when he remembers the chaos that had ensued when she first arrived at Haven. Everyone knew the story. The Hero of Ferelden, who slew the Archdemon and ended the Blight, had gone missing in the 34th year of the Dragon Age. After six years, it was assumed that she had met her death in the Deep Roads like so many Grey Wardens do. Solas had already come to expect the unexpected when he offered Cassandra and her people his assistance, but a fabled hero coming back from the dead, traveling with a known fugitive no less -he can’t help but be impressed that an elf is the one causing such a stir.

He warily glances at a polished moonstone amulet, set in an intricate silver frame the size of a large coin. It rests, nestled against her collarbone, and reflects the candlelight from the bedside table. He senses something ancient in it and wonders if the amulet had been given to her or if she had simply found it during her adventures in Ferelden. Part of him wishes to yank the chain off her neck and study it while she sleeps, but he’s busy enough that he scarcely has the time for such curiosities.

His eyes then wander to her bottom half, towards the bandages covering the stumps just below her knees. The blood soaking her bandages is dark brown now and he makes a note to ask Adan for more. He can still hear her screams echoing in his mind -she had been somewhat lucid when he and Adan removed her legs -not lucid enough to speak coherently, but enough that she spent the entire procedure babbling in elven. It’s hard to tell who she thought he was, but it was clear that she thought she was dying.

He nearly jumps out of his skin when he senses the magic of the Anchor nearby. It feels like static against his skin, caressing his neck and leaving goosebumps in its wake. He manages to compose himself just as the door to the clinic slowly opens. He hadn’t expected Areina to awaken this soon, but it seems that she’s a resilient woman. His eyes follow her as she timidly approaches him, casually observing the way her long arms wrap around her body like she’s keeping a secret, and the way her thick ivory tresses cascade down her shoulders, half covering her face. For three days, she had been asleep, and Solas must admit that it’s remarkable how she can stir all of Thedas into a ruckus and not even be conscious to see it. Apparently, she’s the Herald of Andraste now, too. The things humans tell themselves to feel better about the fact that an elf saved their lives are truly mystifying.

“The Chosen of Andraste -a blessed hero sent to save us all,” he greets her with a slight tilt of his lips.

She drags a stool over to him and takes a seat. “I don’t really feel like a hero. I just wanna do what I can with… whatever _this_ is,” she tells him, twisting her wrist over to look at her mark. It hasn’t grown much bigger, but it hasn’t healed at all; she suspects all her hopes of healing it lie in closing the Breach -a task that is even more daunting than it sounds.

“Spoken nobly indeed,” he says calmly, dabbing the cloth along Anya’s neck idly.

Areina grimaces as she runs her gaze along Anya’s body. Her moans are getting more frantic, like she’s seeing something nobody else can. “Who’s that?” Areina hums quietly, reaching out to grab the smaller elf’s hand.

Solas has to hold in a gasp at that. “You don’t recognize the Hero of Ferelden?”

Anya’s hand unconsciously tightens around Areina’s, holding on to it for dear life. Areina gapes at him, her heart skipping a beat. “I didn’t know the Hero of Ferelden was an elf,” she remarks breathlessly, looking down at her with wide eyes. “Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised that the elf part isn’t common knowledge.”

“Yes,” he agrees solemnly.

“What happened to her?” she questions, rubbing her thumb in circles against Anya’s hand.

“Another victim of the explosion at the conclave. Though, from what I can tell, she had been an uninvited guest.”

“ _As banafelas! As’gara sul em!_ ” Anya’s voice is guttural and raspy -almost like a demon had taken over her.

Anya’s hand has tightens around Areina’s uncomfortably to the point where she has to double check to make sure Anya isn’t actually awake. She knows that Anya just spoke Elven, but she finds it difficult to translate the words on the spot. Thankfully, it seems Solas has it under control.

“Shh, da’len. Eth amahn,” he purrs softly, arching his back to speak into her ear; the words roll down his tongue like honey, and Areina can’t help but note how natural Elven sounds coming from him. His words somehow seem to be getting through to Anya, even in her delirious state, and the heaving of her chest slows down.

“Nightmares,” Solas explains, not even bothering to wait for Areina’s inevitable question.

“What did she say?” she asks, watching the crease in Anya’s brow deepen. “She sounded scared.”

Solas dips the washcloth in water to cool it again as he replies, “She believes she is being hunted by a corruption. She is a Grey Warden, so there is a possibility she is experiencing visions related to her Calling.”

“Her Calling?”

Solas nods hesitantly before turning to look apologetically at Areina. “I must admit, I do not know much about it myself, but that is what Sister Leliana believes. Perhaps she may be able to answer your questions about the Warden better than I could.”

Trying to be as quiet as possible, Areina scoots her stool forward to be closer to the bed and leans over the Hero of Ferelden. She’d heard stories about this woman, but to actually look at her and not just see any woman, but an _elven_ woman… Areina’s known so many elven women: soft and delicate women, and strong huntresses that could topple mountains. She has no doubts that an elven woman could single-handedly save Ferelden, but she sees such vulnerability in the way Anya’s lips quiver in her sleep, and the way her hands shake when she’s not awake to stop them.

“I’ve journeyed deep into the Fade in ancient ruins and battlefields to see the dreams of lost civilizations,” Solas finally says, breaking the silence that had engulfed them. “I’ve watched as hosts of spirits clash to reenact the bloody past in ancient wars both famous and forgotten. Every great war has its heroes. I’m just curious what kind you’ll be.” His steel blue eyes probe her curiously, picking at every gesture -every breath, every blink, every untucked strand of hair.

There he goes, calling her a hero again. The very word makes her skin crawl. Circumstance shouldn’t make a hero -bad luck shouldn’t make a hero. Does being at the wrong place at the wrong time alone make one a hero? What about Cassandra and Leliana, the right and left hands of the Divine, who have been running Haven in the wake of the explosion? What about Commander Cullen, whose forces have been pulling corpses out of wreckage and giving the refugees food and shelter? A magical mark on one’s hand does not a hero make.

Anxious to change the topic, she asks, “What do you mean by ancient ruins and battlefields?”

He looks more than happy to indulge her questions, and she can’t help but find herself leaning in to listen, her shoulder briefly brushing against his. “Any building strong enough to withstand the rigors of time has a history. Every battlefield is steeped in death. Both attract spirits. They press against the Veil, weakening the barrier between our worlds. When I dream in such places, I go deep into the Fade. I can find memories no other living being has ever seen.”

His words make her heart swell. She’s heard of mages with the power to dream so deeply that they don’t see the fade as most dreamers do -rather they see it with such clarity that it is indistinguishable from the real world. She had a theory that Keeper Deshanna, in addition to being an ancient elf, was, in fact, one of these Dreamers. This had been a theory that she kept to herself, but she recalls her Keeper often resting under trees and communicating with the spirits.

She recalls a time when her clan was staying in a beautiful forest on the southern Tevinter border. It’s been over ten years, and she still remembers how strong the trees were, how proudly they stood. She remembers the grass on the ground being thick and glistening in the sunlight that trickled in through the treetops. She remembers flowers in every color imaginable growing on the forest floor with an ethereal glow about them. Keeper Deshanna had told them that the forest had been called Em’ethal by their ancestors, and that it had once been a part of Elvhenan many, many years ago, frozen in time by the spirit that watched over it. She said she had found it in a dream and that the spirit of the forest, Inar, as the Keeper so affectionately called it, had offered them refuge for a short time.

Areina lets out a giggle, noting with amusement the way Solas bristles in response. “I’m sorry,” she says, “But you fall asleep in ancient ruins? You must be used to close calls with giant spiders then.”

He scoffs. “Speaking from personal experience, are we? I _do_ set wards. And if you leave food out for the spiders, they are usually content to live and let live.”

Still grinning, she tells him, “All I get out of going to old ruins is old carvings, maybe shards of an ancient ceramic plate if I’m lucky. It’s impressive that you can go so deep into the Fade and learn so much.”

She catches a soft glimmer in his eye when he hears her praise. “Thank you. It’s not a common field of study, for obvious reasons. Not so flashy as throwing fire or lightning. The thrill of finding remnants of a thousand year old dream? I would not trade it for anything.” There is a tender note in the way his voice rumbles in his chest, and Areina sees in him a kindred spirit.

“Maybe after I figure out a way to close that hole in the sky, you could show me one of those ancient battlefields. It sounds much more exciting than trying to put together old trinkets and reading ancient trading manifests.”

His eyes meet her own dusky irises and for a moment, Areina feels like she might have said something wrong. “I would like that,” he tells her, though there is an unmistakable pause before he speaks. Abruptly, he tears his eyes away from her to look at the wooden boards in the wall in front of him. “I will stay then, at least until the Breach has been closed.”

“Was that in doubt?”

“I am an apostate surrounded by Chantry forces and unlike you, I do not have a divine mark protecting me,” he reminds her. “Cassandra has been accommodating, but you understand my caution.”

“You’ve been risking your life to help, Solas. I won’t let them lock you up for that,” Areina insists.

“How would you stop them?” He’s doing it again, staring not at her, but through her, and it makes her heart leap into her throat.

“However I had to,” she promises.

A faint smile plays at his lips. “Thank you.” He subtly clears his throat before adding, “For now, let us hope either the mages or the templars have the power to seal the Breach.”

Areina slips her hand out of Anya’s and straightens up in her seat, unsure if she’s ready to leave Solas’s company yet or not. It’s more than just elven kinship that draws her to him -speaking to him feels like opening an old and familiar book, and listening to him is like getting lost in the pages. Unfortunately, she has other things to worry about, and so she excuses herself and gets to her feet.

Before she reaches for the door, however, she turns around again and asks, “Solas, of the wounded you and Adan have been helping, did you find a Dalish girl? With dark skin and tight, short curly hair?”

Solas holds in the sigh that builds up in his chest. “Your sister?”

“Yes,” she says, voice barely above a whisper.

“I am afraid I have not,” he replies, pursing his lips. He doesn’t want to give her false hope, but he wants to say something. He wants to tell her ‘Perhaps she escaped and went north, back to the Free Marches.’ but he won’t lie to her like that, so he simply leaves a gap in the air shaped like all the reassurances he’s stifled behind his tight lips.

“Oh,” she says. “I’ll ask somebody else then. Thank you, Solas.”

‘Don’t thank me,’ he wants to say, but then she’s gone, and he puts his washcloth in the basin, squeezes it, and goes back to wiping Anya’s face.

“I’m doing the right thing, right?” he mumbles to himself, unfolding the cloth and laying it flat against her forehead.

“I’m probably the worst person you could ask…”

Solas freezes as one of Anya’s golden brown eyes peeks out at him. “You’re awake.” She’s also more conscious than she had been when she first arrived at Haven as she’s already started to make an effort to pretend that the state of agonizing pain she had just been in has completely dissipated.

“And you’re bald. And now we’ve both stated the obvious,” she replies weakly, giving him a cheeky grin, and he sighs, rolling his eyes in response. Leliana and Cassandra would want to hear about this, though perhaps he can offer her a few moments to gain her bearings before leaving her on her own.

“Do you know where you are?” he asks.

“Haven,” she replies and winces, letting out a groan. “I can’t feel my legs.”

“Do you know what happened after the conclave exploded?”

“The what?” she murmurs. “Is the Divine…”

“The Divine is dead, and you were injured in the blast that took her life.”

Anya lets out a shuddering sigh and raises her hands to her face, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. She lets out a high pitched laugh in spite of herself. “Ahh... that certainly isn’t good.”

“No,” he replies flatly. “It certainly isn’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I fumbled around with FenxShiral's Elvhen lexicon for the Elven I used in this chapter. Here are the translations:
> 
> As banafelas! As’gara sul em! - "She's corruption! She's after me!"
> 
> Shh, da’len. Eth amahn - "Shh, child. It's safe here/You're safe here"


	6. A Home Lost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Idk why I'm here, I have a thesis to write, but to be fair, this chapter's been done for at least a week -just needed editing.

It smells like wetness and rot in the chantry undercroft, a stench that finds its way into your nose and lingers on your clothes whether you like it or not. Anya's been in nicer places; she's been in nicer prison cells. She's definitely going to need a nice, long, hot bath. She can feel her sweat-soaked curls sticking to her face and her shirt clinging to her chest and hugging her sides.

Oh, and she doesn't have her legs anymore. That's new. She doesn't know if it's the elfroot or the adrenaline, but she's not as upset as she thought she'd be. She's angry, sure, but that's more a result of being locked in a dirty cell and bound with lyrium-blocking cuffs. Is there really a point to them, though? She doesn’t need magic to hurt people; she just needs a long stick, preferably one with a pointy end.

With a grunt, she leans over and grabs the cell bars with her hands and drags her body over, trying to ignore her healing stumps, which still hurt like a bitch, more so as they’re scraped across the dirty stone floor. It’s chilly in the dungeon, too, which isn’t exactly helping. She leans against the wall, resting her cheek against the cold bricks. They haven’t even left anyone to watch her either, which somewhat offends her. Sure she may have some difficulty moving, but give her a solid hour and some sticks and she’d figure something out.

Her ears perk up when she hears voices in a distant part of the undercroft. It sounds like two women speaking and coming closer, and although the echoes spread far enough for her to hear, they’re too hushed to understand.

“Are you sure about this?” one voice says -she has an accent. Nevarran.

“It should be me,” the second voice replies; this one is lilting with a hint of Orlesian in it. The sound of it makes Anya’s delirious mind blank. She knows this voice. “Go back upstairs, Cassandra. I can handle this.”

Anya hears Cassandra relent and say, “As you wish. I will be in the war room if you need me.”

The next minute or so is filled with silence and the sound of boots on cobblestone ricocheting against the walls. Anya’s chest feels tight and her breathing comes out in short, anxious puffs. With every soft footstep, every second that passes, her flesh objects. There’s a knife in her heart, buried deep, untouched for ten years as her muscles furled and closed around it; and now she feels what was once dormant awaken, and a badly healed wound twitches.

Her shadow appears first, and then the rest of her. Has she always been this tall? Anya can’t remember. Her face is obscured by a dark violet hood, but there’s no doubt it’s her. She still smells like lavender and iron; it’s strange that it hasn’t changed in ten years. Maybe Anya’s dead -maybe that would explain it. She drags a wooden stool from the corner of the room and places it right in front of the bars of Anya’s cell before taking a seat.

“Well, isn’t this funny,” Anya croaks, grinning and looking at the shadows dancing around Leliana’s face. “Is this where the Maker sends the bad girls when they die? Because I have a few complaints.”

Leliana’s expression is stoic, with deep lines digging into her brow and shadows coloring the hollows of her eyes; it makes her porcelain face look much older. “You think you’re dead?”

Anya shrugs and closes her eyes, settling her aching back into the wall. “No, you’re right. I could still be alive. So am I in the Fade then? Are you a demon? If you are, you should know someone’s used this trick on me before. A desire demon -Ondire I believe his name was. Pleasant fellow, until he tried to kill me.”

With her sharp, unblinking gaze, Leliana listens to Anya’s fevered rambling. “You are not in the Fade; no. But you already know that, don’t you?”

Anya relaxes her muscles, eyes still shut like the entire exchange is lulling her to sleep. “You know, if you’re a demon, you’re terrible at pretending to be Leli. Just giving you some constructive criticism. Ondire was much more convincing. He was a good lay, too.”

Leliana’s eye twitches in irritation, but her voice remains unyieldingly calm as she speaks. “Why do you think you’re in the Fade?”

Animosity flares briefly across Anya’s normally detached countenance, and her eyes snap open. “Oh, come now. See this is what I mean. If you were the real Leli, you’d know that you’ve been dead for ten years.”

“You’ve been dead for five years,” Leliana replies, frowning. “And yet, here we both are.”

Anya grins, hooking her fingers idly through the bars of her cell. “I had everyone fooled, and it wasn’t even on purpose really. That aside, if the real Leliana’s death was faked, I don’t know if I would want to talk to her,” she remarks dismissively.

She can see Leliana tense up, her leatherbound fingers grasp at the tabard draped over her lap. “I did not _fake_ anything. And how are you any different?”

Anya winces, scraping at the cobblestone beneath her, feeling the dirt lodge itself beneath her nails. “We’re plenty different. I was ruined when you died. If you were alive, why would you let me believe you were gone?”

This Leliana looks lost for words. She leans forward, placing her elbows against her knees and staring at Anya, almost as if the right response were hidden in the lines of her face. “I’m… sorry. Unfortunately, whether you believe I am real or not, you need to answer my questions.” She forces her tone to be cold and impartial. Whatever did or did not happen between them can’t get in the way of finding Justinia’s killer.

Anya doesn’t say anything, sighing deeply and relaxing her torso again. It’s hard to tell what she’s thinking as her chest rises and falls shallowly, like there’s something heavy sitting on top of her. Perhaps it’s simply the atmosphere, or the years they spent apart, the volumes of words they have for each other, sitting unspoken at the backs of their throats.

“Why were you at the conclave?” Leliana demands.

“Warden business.”

“Do you admit to travelling with the apostate known as Anders?”

“Yes.”

“Did you know about Anders’ plan to destroy the conclave?”

For a brief moment, the mask of calm on Anya’s face is disturbed. “Anders did not destroy the conclave.”

“Do you know who did?”

“It was me.”

Leliana’s throat dries up, making each breath feel like sand scraping through her windpipe. It’s has to be a lie. “You what?”

“I blew up the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Is that what you want to hear?”

It’s hard to look Anya directly in the face at this point. She’s admitting to this with such audacity, and why wouldn’t she? Anya has always been glib and arrogant, but she has some _nerve_ lying about this “I want to hear the truth!” Leliana snaps.

“Then it was me,” Anya says, shrugging, her brown eyes glinting faintly in the torchlight. “I went there specifically to blow up the temple. Anders had no idea.”

Leliana can’t control the volume of her voice anymore. “If you’re defending him, Anya -”

“I’m not defending him! I killed Divine Justinia.” Anya jerks her head to face her interrogator and repeats her words very slowly so Leliana can see every word passing through her lips. “I killed Divine Justinia and I’d do it again.”

“You…” Leliana tries to pull a coherent thought from her own head -something that she could say that would make sense in this context, but none of it makes sense. The thoughts and images in her head are thousands of tiny puzzle pieces in a brown pile, and none of them fit together. “If that is true, then you should have stayed dead,” she finally spits out.

She staggers to her feet, her body suddenly feeling very heavy, like she’d just taken control of someone else and her mind is trying to adjust. Her stomach is churning and she’s not sure if it’s disgust, fear, or fury -perhaps even a mixture of the three. The prisoner’s face remains placid and almost content in a way.

“Rot in the Void, Anya,” Leliana hisses. Her blood is rushing to her head, and she fears if she remains here any longer, she may just snap the elf’s neck. Anya has left Leliana to pick up the scraps of her self-control off the ground before she turns on her heel and marches out of the dungeon, boots slamming against the ground like a giant. If that’s the game Anya wants to play, then Leliana will have to remind her that she’s won every game they’ve ever played, and she’s not about to lose now.

 

* * *

For the better part of the day, Areina has been asking around about her older sister, Eirwa, to no avail. It looks like nobody in Haven has ever encountered such an elf. All she can hope for at this point is for Eirwa to have somehow found her way back north to meet up with their clan. She’s been trying to find a good time to meet up with Josephine and ask her if they could contact Clan Lavellan, but it has been hard to step foot in the Haven chantry since the early afternoon.

It’s no secret now that the Hero of Ferelden is suspected to be involved in the murder of Divine Justinia and it seems like none of the heads of the Inquisition are happy about this. From the moment the Hero awoke, the four leaders have been in a screaming match in the war room -a match which they have, thankfully, left Areina out of. The loudest are Leliana and Cullen’s voices, with Cassandra’s voice butting in to try and settle things down every once in a while. Most of the clerics in the Chantry have been sitting in uncomfortable silence, mumbling the Chant of Light to themselves, as if that would down out the noise.

Although the Hero of Ferelden is a prisoner, Areina can’t help the curiosity that she feels whenever she thinks about her. Against her better judgement, she makes her way along the chantry, past the clerics, and towards the sturdy wooden door leading down into the dungeon. If she’s quick, maybe she can get a word with the warden commander.

She stares at the door, her heart beating rapidly in her chest as she runs her hands over the rough surface. As she leans in to push the door open, she hears the door to the war room burst open and someone exclaiming, “Mistress Lavellan!”

Areina turns around abruptly, nearly losing her balance in the process. She nearly shrieks in fright before realizing that it’s just Josephine, holding a hand to her temples. “Ah, Josephine!” Areina greets, sucking in her bottom lip sheepishly.

“I ask that you not disturb the prisoner, Mistress Lavellan,” Josephine warns. Her voice sounds hoarse and tired. She sighs and indicates the door to her own office, which is conveniently located beside the door to the undercroft.

Areina follows Josephine into the office, which is arguably the nicest part of the chantry. The study is quite large, containing several shelves full of books -more books than Areina has seen in one place for a long time. She was never allowed to keep many books while travelling with her clan because they’re heavy and made moving around harder.

On one side of the room, an elven woman in circle mage robes is hunched over a table, scribbling notes. Areina has seen her around Haven and has always wanted to talk to her, but she has given off such an intimidating aura thus far. Now isn’t really a good time either as the woman looks incredibly irritated, and who wouldn’t be if they were trying to work with all that noise.

In the center of the study is Josephine’s own desk. It’s quite neat considering all the work Josephine has to do for the Inquisition on a daily basis. All her papers and books are in neat piles and there is a porcelain jar of quills by her workspace.

When Josephine takes a seat behind her bureau, Areina sits down in one of the comfortable-looking seats on the other side of the desk, placing her hands in her lap and twiddling her thumbs.

“Sorry,” she mumbles, watching Josephine quietly straighten her clothes and tidy up her hair, brushing any loose strands behind her ears.

Josephine gives her a startled look, pausing briefly before saying, “Oh, I- You must think I called you in here to scold you. No, I am sorry if I gave that impression.” She smiles, the small mole at the bottom of her cheek rising with the gesture. “Rather, I called you in here to talk. My colleagues have been… rather passionately debating for quite a while. I needed some fresh air.”

Areina smiles sympathetically at her. They can still hear the arguing from inside Josephine’s office. “We can talk outside of the chantry. The weather is really nice outside.”

Josephine cocks her head to the side, seemingly turning the proposition about in her mind. When she hears a rather aggressive shout from Cassandra, however, her mind is made. She smiles gratefully, as if Areina personally gave her permission to leave. “Perhaps that would not be such a terrible idea.”

“Great!” Areina says, clumsily standing up.

Getting to her feet as well, Josephine casts a meaningful look over at the quiet elven woman. “Minaeve, perhaps you would like to join us? It must be difficult to concentrate at the moment.”

“Me? M’lady?” The woman, Minaeve, turns around in her seat. She has a soft spoken and hesitant way about her and each movement she makes is slow and deliberate, like she’s afraid to make a mistake. “Thank you, Lady Montilyet, but I don’t mind the noise.” She has a Dalish accent, which surprises Areina, but in spite of being an adult, she doesn’t have Vallaslin, so she must have left the Dalish when she was very young.

“Are you certain?” Josephine asks hesitantly. “It may do you some good to get some fresh air with us.”

“It is kind of you to worry, M’lady, but I should finish studying these samples,” Minaeve tells her firmly but kindly.

Josephine moves to stand beside Areina before nodding and saying, “Very well, then.”

 

* * *

The village of Haven is slowly recovering, looking more like a village and less like a gathering of war-torn refugees with each passing day. More merchants have been showing up at the Inquisition's doorstep to trade and perhaps even get a glimpse of the fabled Herald of Andraste. The sun is beginning to set on the village, but that hasn’t deterred the merchants, all of whom are bellowing out advertisements for their wares, resulting in an incomprehensible cacophony of voices.

Josephine and Areina make their way through an alleyway between a villager’s house and an old storage building in order to avoid gawking eyes, the setting sun casting long shadows ahead of them. Josephine lets out a musical giggle as she stumbles over a wooden plank and looks back at Areina apologetically. “Ah this reminds me of when I was a girl, hiding out in dark alleyways.”

Areina smiles back. “I didn’t know you had such an adventurous past, Lady Montilyet.”

Josephine is a charming sight, climbing over crates in her golden silks and Antivan leather boots. She ducks behind the storage building and peeks out to say, “Please, there is no need to be so formal. Call me Josephine. We are, after all, sneaking around like thieves.”

“Alright, Josephine. Then you should call me, Rey,” Areina cheerfully informs her, climbing over to her and letting her lead them into another alleyway.

Josephine lends Areina her hand and says, “Just a bit more now, Rey.” At hearing Josephine use her nickname, Areina feels her entire face glow as if by magic.

When the two women emerge from between another set of buildings, they see a young woman standing on a crate to light the lanterns outside of a rather large building, which stands out among the rest. A large sign dangles above the door, waving slightly as the nighttime breeze picks up in speed.

“The tavern?” Areina questions, allowing herself to be pulled towards the building.

“Why not?” Josephine replies. “I could use a drink after everything that’s happened today.”

The woman by the door gracefully descends from her crate and turns to greet Josephine and Areina. She’s a very beautiful woman, with soft auburn hair resting on her shoulder in a messy plait, dressed in a simple Fereldan dress. Her bodice accentuates her bosom, which is rather large, and cuts off at her wide hips; and only sheer willpower can keep Areina from staring. She dusts off her skirts and and bows her head. “Lady Montilyet, welcome!” She then bows her head to Areina. “And you must be the Lady Herald, right?” There’s a hint of fear in the way she addresses Areina, like she expects to be reprimanded even though she’s done nothing wrong.

“Good evening, Flissa. This is Mistress Lavellan,” Josephine says, indicating Areina. “Areina, this is Flissa, the proprietor of the Singing Maiden.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Flissa,” Areina says, trying to look as open as possible.

“If you’re lookin’ for a drink I’ll make sure you’re well taken care of,” Flissa promises. Her voice is jittery, like she’s trying not to say the wrong thing. “Come on in!” she says, holding open the door.

The Singing Maiden is a building unlike any other human building Areina has seen. The atmosphere is bright and warm, but also very intimidating. It smells faintly of sweat, spice and something else she can’t quite place. Several Haven villagers are grouped up -some are dancing, some are drinking, and some are singing. A bard is leisurely strumming her lute in the corner of the room, while a drunk woman tries to chat with her. It’s all so foreign to Areina, and she feels herself unconsciously gravitating towards Josephine.

Flissa seats the pair at a table for two in a well-lit area of the tavern before sashaying towards the bar to take orders from the crowd that has gathered around it. Again, Areina finds it hard to tear her eyes away from her as she walks away. She shakes her head, blushing and looking down at the table.

“Are you alright, Lady- I mean, Rey?”

Areina looks up to find a concerned Josephine looking back, pouting slightly, her glossed lips glimmering faintly in the candlelight. “Oh, I’m alright!” she reassures. “I’ve just never been to a tavern before. Are they all so big and smelly?” She scrunches her nose and links her fingers together on the table’s surface.

Josephine laughs, a sound that Areina has come to find incredibly pleasant. She does it with such grace and charisma that there’s absolutely no doubt why this woman is the Inquisition’s chief diplomat. “Oh, it is a part of their appeal!” she gushes, and then quickly sobers to add, “You do not feel uncomfortable, do you? If so, then we can sit somewhere else.”

Areina raises her hands and waves them as if to completely dismiss the notion. “No! No, I don’t mind at all!” Placing her hands down into her lap again, she asks, “What is it you wanted to talk to me about, by the way?”

“Oh!” Josephine cries out, and Areina can see her mentally beating herself up. “I had nearly forgotten about that! Forgive me, and I dragged you all the way out here -”

“Josephine!” Areina interrupts her. “Relax! I’m here because I want to be here. You don’t have to worry about me,” she reassures her.

Josephine’s eyes brighten briefly. “I wanted to ask if you are comfortable here in Haven. I know you’ve barely been awake a day, but this all must be very new to you. Are you alright?”

“I’ll be fine as soon as I know my sister is alright,” Areina informs her, feeling her pleasant mood slowly seep out of her as her anxiety from earlier settles back in its place.

With a small pout, Josephine hums with sympathy. “Ah, yes. Cassandra told me about your sister. You have not had any luck finding her among the refugees?”

“No…” Areina murmurs in response. “I was hoping the Inquisition could help me contact my clan. Maybe she’s found her way back to the Free Marches.”

“Without you?” Josephine questions softly before realizing the meaning of her words, her lips shutting to a firm line.

Areina shrugs, anxiously cocooning herself in her own arms and squeezing her torso. “Eiry wouldn’t have gone looking for me. She’s a smart girl -smarter than me. Stronger, too. One look at the wreckage at the temple and she’d assume I was dead and go back north. Losing the clan’s First is bad enough, but losing a good hunter…”

Josephine frowns. “I suppose we could contact Clan Lavellan. We should let them know that you are safe and in good hands. They must be worried. And if your sister is with them, she would be overjoyed to know that you are well.”

“I would be very grateful, Josephine. Thank you!” Areina tries to relax her arms so she doesn’t look like a fidgeting despair demon. “I hope it’s not too much trouble.”

“Oh, it is no trouble at all!”

Flissa returns with two goblets and a flagon of mead, placing them on the table in front of the two women. “Have a lovely evening, Lady Montilyet, Lady Herald.”

“I’d like to get to know you better, Josephine,” Areina says, using Flissa’s arrival as an opportunity to change the subject.

“Well, My Lady, the night is still young,” Josephine remarks, pouring some mead for the both of them.

Areina can feel her worry begin to melt away again. It’s definitely something in the way Josephine purrs each syllable that comes through her lips like every word she says is a mystical tale. She reminds Areina of the warm nights she would spend with her clanmates under the moonlight, sitting at the edges of lakes and kicking their feet in the cool water. And perhaps that’s what makes Josephine such an effective diplomat; she reminds everyone she speaks to of home.


	7. A Meeting of Strangers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before anything, I would like to give a HUGE THANK YOU to BetaJumper who drew a lovely picture of Areina, which I've made my icon on everything because it's so beautiful! You can also find a full size version of it on tumblr (I can't make links work here, but their url is BetaJumper)  
> ______
> 
> Ah I hadn't realized it had been this long since I last updated. Finals came, then Eid and I couldn't write much of anything for a solid month.
> 
> Anyway, I'm back! :)
> 
> I hope this chapter doesn't seem too disjointed, it's more of a transition chapter while I get things rolling.
> 
> (ALSO YOU GET A PROPER INTRO TO MIRIAM, WHO I LOVE AND CHERISH)

A soft rustle rouses Cullen from his sleep. He lets his blanket slip off of him and climbs down from his bed, careful not to disturb his fellow templars. In the Kinloch Hold barracks, they have eight templars to a room, which is as crowded as one can imagine.

He rummages around for his boots, freezing when he hears one of his roommates moan loudly in his sleep. His breath halts as he waits to make sure that he hasn't woken anyone up. If he were to get caught on his way out, he wouldn't hear the end of it. He shakes his head to get the images of Greagoir's perpetually malcontent face out of his head. No, he can't think about that now.

It takes him what seems like an eternity to creep through the room, open the door, slip through, and shut it again. The barracks are quiet, and he can hear wind howling through the windows. His shadow multiplies and dances along the walls in the dim torchlight, like the ghosts of past and future telling him to turn around and just go back to his room. But that never works -he's tried it so many times before that he's lost count.

He knew he'd be back here again, tonight, in the halls of Kinloch Hold where it all started, but knowing doesn't make it any easier. Every night, he's eighteen years old, barely even a year into his service.

Tonight, it's the circle's chapel. He locks eyes with Andraste's statue, standing at the altar, almost taunting him. He's tried calling out to her before, but she never answers. He notes that the Chant of Light normally sitting upon the altar is missing, and the bookshelves are empty.

"Cullen?" her soft voice brings him back to the present, or perhaps this lie masquerading as the present. She timidly approaches him, her face younger, less battleworn, more innocent. She's made up entirely of tight black curls that fall all the way down her back and frame her face like a giant cloud.

Then she touches him. A small hand slipping into his own.

"Evie…" he mumbles, feeling his breath catch in his throat. His tension seeps out of his body like a sack of grain bursting at the seams. He relaxes into her, lowering his forehead to hers and breathing her in. "Are you sure you weren't caught?"

She laughs, sending shivers down his spine. "You don't give me enough credit. I've done this before. Plus, Amell is covering for me."

He feels a chuckle escape his lips against his better judgement. "This is more dangerous for you than it is for me. I loathe that you're putting yourself at risk like this for me." He strokes her fingers with his thumb -they're soft, but they shouldn't be, not anymore.

"It's alright, vhenan," she whispers. "I do it because I love you." Her hands slip out of his and move slowly to his abdomen, fingers creeping under his shirt. Her touch is hellfire and he can feel his skin screaming in protest -it's torture. "Do you love me?"

"Evie, we shouldn't… It's not right."

He takes one step back, gently pushing her away.

"But we love each other. I want this."

She takes one step forward. Her face is unreadable -or perhaps that's the wrong word. It's not hard to read; rather there is  _nothing_  to read on it. Has she always looked like that?

Hands pale as death undoing the ties on her apprentice robes, letting them fall to the floor in a dark violet heap. Her body is glimmering bronze and sex, and her voluminous black hair caressing her every curve -a portrait of temptation- No.  _Desire._  He can see the demonic horns peeking out through her messy curls. Her crimson eyes call out to him -no; that's the wrong color…

"Ar lath, ma vhenan… Cullen…"

"It's not right," he says again, his voice faltering like a drying quill scraping against parchment. He moves back again. Two steps. His legs are heavy and he knows it's her doing. Blood magic. It's blood magic. Red and thick -slimy tendrils wrapping themselves around his legs and climbing up his body, caressing his skin, touching him where it shouldn't.

"I'm not a blood mage, Cullen! I would never do that to you!" she cries out, but it's nothing more than a beautiful statue parroting the voices from his past.

He tries to close his eyes. It's not real. It's not real. It's not real.

"What about your promise? You promised me, Cullen."

"It's not real," he growls, finding his voice again and dashing out of the Chantry and into the snow. There's a storm brewing above Haven and the sky is black and green; the breach is swirling overhead like a whirlwind.

He can't see anything but the icy mist ahead and blurs of thick tree trunks running past him in an endless loop. He can't see her, but he knows she's following him, just out of reach. Her voice whispers in his ear, never touching him but close enough to brush her fingers against him if she so desired.

"Cullen! Please!" she hisses, her distorted voice bouncing around him, echoing against the bark.

He doesn't bother replying -everything she says is more of the same. It's not real anyway. It's the same thing every night and he can already feel his vocal cords tighten and his windpipe narrow. He's nearly out of the thicket and prepares himself to take a sharp turn onto the bridge separating Haven from the rest of the Frostback mountains.

He slams his fists into solid gate, fumbling around for the gate mechanism to the side of the door. It doesn't budge or even move, almost like it's just a fixed decoration in the wall, no different than the stone holding the ancient bridge together or the sturdy arch towering above him. Defeated, he turns around, pressing his back against the gate and waits, doomed to his fate like the oily subject of a tragic painting.

At first he sees nothing and hears nothing, but then his eyes land on her at the far end of the bridge. This one is no longer young; her skin is no longer smooth and her hair is not as soft. She's lying on her stomach, the fabric of her robes is dyed black with her own blood. Her approach is agonizingly slow as she uses her arms, hands digging into the floor, and drags herself across. Then she picks up speed, her arms zealously working her towards him, her mangled legs trailing after her like dead weight.

His chest folds into itself and it gets harder and harder to breathe. He's long since lost the ability to speak or scream or move. All he can do is violently heave his chest, begging his lungs to work and listen, counting how many times her robes loudly chafe against the stonework; each scrape is a gash in his lungs, letting all the air out. He's desperate for oxygen now, but he knows it will all be over soon.

Her boiling hot claw latches on to his ankle, nails digging into his skin as though he were made of dough. A hoarse, high-pitched moan forces itself through his lips in place of a scream. He blinks and she's right in front of him, her nose and lips brushing against his own, a disgusting mockery of intimacy.

"Is this real enough for you?"

* * *

The oppressive heat of the druffalo skin blanket and the sweat making his trousers cling to his legs bring him back to reality. Cullen pulls an arm out from under the covers to comb his fingers through his slick curls. He's still in his tent; he never left.

His heart slams into his ribs when he hears the leather flaps of his tent move, and he reflexively sits up, his hand fumbling for the blade he keeps by his bedroll. His hand wraps around the sturdy handle, but he feels unexpected resistance when he attempts to pick it up and swing it across the tent.

"Easy there, Commander. It's just me."

Cullen blinks his aching eyes slowly until they adjust to the darkness. "Cedric? Maker's breath. I half expected you to be Amell, or something worse."

Cedric raises his brows, frowning deeply. "Are you sleeping with my wife, commander?"

"Andraste's mercy! No!" Cullen sputters, wanting desperately to take his words back. What he had meant was that, ever since arriving at Haven, Amell has been 'mommying' him (for lack of a more precise word). She'd appear unannounced whenever he was alone and begin to tidy up his hair or give him unsolicited advice about his hygiene or his diet. He's sure she means well, but he  _is_  a man of thirty years now and can take care of himself.

The hurt expression on Cedric's face breaks, and he lets out a hearty laugh, laying his hand on Cullen's shoulder. "I'm joking; don't worry! Rough night?" he asks, removing his boot from the tip of Cullen's sword. "You were talking in your sleep."

Cullen frowns. "I didn't realize. What time is it?"

Cedric tucks a strand of his hair behind his ear. "Just before dawn, Commander."

With a drawn-out sigh, Cullen slicks his hair back and begins to reach for his clothes. "Duty calls, I suppose."

Cedric gives him an apologetic smile before saying, "I'll start waking the troops up."

* * *

Areina's still not accustomed to human culture. They're loud and they smell funny, and she's not entirely sure if it's on purpose or not (both their voices and their scents). They see a hole in the sky and their first impulse is to drink as much ale as they can without passing out or dying. And all the  _touching_! She can certainly do without people grasping at her shoulder to ask whether or not she's the Herald of Andraste whenever she steps out of her quarters.

She's scarcely left her small shack when she's confronted by a very tall human woman, with a halo of enviable golden hair and robes made of black and gold brocade that showcase her breasts and flatter her curves, of which she has  _plenty_. She's not a refugee or a villager, and Areina is certain she's seen her before, but never interacted with her.

"Lady Herald, may I steal a moment of your time?" the woman says; her voice is more mature than Areina expects, and gives off a very matronly lilt.

"Of course," Areina replies, holding the woman firmly in her gaze. Areina counts herself as quite tall, even by human standards, but this woman completely towers over her.

The woman then smiles, offering her hand in greeting. "My name is Miriam Cousland -formerly of the illustrious Amell family. I am currently in the employ of Her Majesty, Queen Anora of Ferelden, as court enchantress and advisor, and I was to be Her Grace's proxy at the…  _ill-fated_  conclave."

Areina accepts the handshake, offering a smile of her own. "It's nice to meet you, Lady Cousland. You can call me Areina."

"Aren't you delightful!" Miriam laughs as if at a secret joke, her grip on Areina's hand lingering for a moment before she lets go. "I've heard that Sister Nightingale intends to send you to the Hinterlands to speak to a Chantry Mother by the name of Giselle."

Areina's eyes widen. "I- I wasn't aware that was public knowledge, my Lady."

There's a mysterious glint in Miriam's eye as she says, "Oh, nothing escapes my notice, dear. I have come to ask if I may offer you my services. I have ties to nobility and I've lived in Ferelden my entire life. If anyone knows the people you will be interacting with, it's me."

Areina purses her lips, considering Miriam's offer carefully. "And why ask me? Why not go directly to Cassandra or Leliana."

"You're the one with the mark on your hand," Miriam points out. Sensing Areina's hesitance, she adds, "I won't lie to you, Areina. I do have my own reasons to accompany you to the Hinterlands. The mage-templar war has been a thorn in the King and Queen's sides for months. Both parties in the conflict have been endangering villagers all across the Bannorn. And we've had complaints from Arl Teagan that the rebel mages have completely overrun Redcliffe. This is a conflict near and dear to my heart, Herald. I won't get in your way; I only ask that you allow me to help you."

Areina lets out a long and deep sigh before shrugging. "I could definitely use all the help I can get. Welcome aboard, Lady Cousland. We're leaving for the Hinterlands tomorrow at dawn."

An elegant smile spreads across Miriam's lips. "My bags are already packed."

Miriam saunters away from her with the gait of a satisfied cat, and as she departs, another of Areina's associates makes his way over, greeting her in his soft, rumbling voice.

"Aneth ara, lethallan. I trust you slept well?"

She feels her cheeks heat up as she steps forward to meet him. "Solas! Good morning! I slept much better than yesterday. Thank you for asking."

Solas feels the corners of his lips tilt up involuntarily at seeing her infectious smile. "I'm glad to hear it. The mark did not trouble you throughout the night?"

She lifts up the hand with her mark and shakes it experimentally. "Not really. It stopped hurting, but I don't think it's gonna stop growing until we get the breach closed."

He nods slowly, turning around and pacing leisurely away. He stops after a couple of steps and looks over his shoulder at her. "Come. Walk with me," he says, gesturing towards her.

Curiously, she scurries over to him and matches his step, as he leads her through the village and towards the gates, where the sound of troops training, boots on the ground, steel against steel, is deafening. He doesn't say a word, and as the two of them weave through the arrays of tents, Areina's mind runs with all the things that he could wish to talk to her about.

When the sounds of the training begin to decrease in volume, she turns to Solas and asks, "Where are we going?"

He pauses for a moment before answering. "I'm running an errand for Adan and thought you might enjoy a change of pace."

The pair walk through the snow, leaving identical footprints behind them. Soon the faint sounds of Cullen's men fades into a hush of still winter air. She breathes in deeply, filling her lungs with the silence that she hadn't even realized she missed. That's not to say that her clan did not have its rowdier moments, but there was never any shortage of moments where she could sit alone in the dewy morning grass and relish in the silence.

"I never realized how much shemlen like to yell," she remarks, sighing as she feels her tension begin to deflate.

She hears Solas chuckle and reply, "Yes. Solitude has become a rare commodity."

With a sly grin, she sneaks a quick peek at his face, catching the smile on his face before it morphs back into his usual serious expression. She's reminded of the stern expressions her eldest brother, Heiron, used to give her when he was teaching her how to use a bow before her magic had manifested. He was the only one of her seven siblings who shared June's vallaslin with her.

"I apologize, lethallan, I was a bit misleading in my motives for bringing you here," he tells her, his leisurely gait slowing to a stop in the middle of a white clearing. "I noticed earlier that your technique could use some work. The Hinterlands is a battleground for the rogue mages and templars; it will be dangerous. Are you sure you can handle that?"

Areina rolls her eyes and crosses her arms over her chest. "So there is no errand for Adan. You brought me here to train me?"

"To test your skill -yes."

"I didn't bring my staff with me."

He tosses his own towards her. She hastily grabs it, her hands running over the smooth texture of the staff, down to the wide grip. It's a beautifully crafted staff, topped off with a cleansing rune encased in metallic vines like branches on a tree. The blade on the bottom is also smooth and clean, glinting in the sunlight.

"What about you?"

"Don't worry about me. Worry about yourself," he says. "Now attack me."

Areina bites her lip, holding on to the staff tightly and casting a simple winter's grasp, only to see Solas shrug off the ice she had summoned with an impartial frown. He crosses his arms impatiently and says, "Was that supposed to be your best? On the field, you will meet enemies who are trying to kill you."

Feeling her heart sink in her chest, she sputters, "I know! I just-"

Her eyes widen when he straightens up and marches towards her, grabbing her by her wrists before asking, "Is your left hand your dominant hand?"

"No," she replies, feeling her cheeks burn at his proximity to her.

"Then why are you gripping your staff with your left? You're not focused."

She clenched her left fist over the anchor and sighed. "Magic feels different with the mark. It's like I'm learning how to cast all over again."

His expression softens. "Da'len, poor form is a result of lack of proper practice."

She sighs. "You sound just like my Keeper, y'know."

He smirks. "And you keep making excuses." He scolds, moving her hands along the staff to the right positions before jumping backwards and moving into a defensive stance. "Again!"

Areina glares, feeling a sense of lethargy overtake her. Of course she realizes that Solas is right, but she really wishes she could be anywhere else. She sucks in a deep breath and channels her frustration into another spell -holding her staff in the correct hand this time. She feels the tingle of magic under her skin, mana seeping through her pores.

She watches as Solas casts a barrier spell at the last moment, absorbing part of her spell, but shattering under the pressure of the icy shards that sprout out of the ground and grow around Solas's legs. He struggles slightly against it, but lets out a resigned sigh in the end. "Well, you certainly did not hold back."

A pang of guilt mixes in with her shame and frustration. "I'm sorry!" she yelps, waving her staff to make the ice at his feet crumble.

He half-heartedly kicks at the remains of Areina's spell, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Why would you be? You did exactly what I asked of you." His gaze meets hers again and she feels that naked sensation she had felt a couple of days ago when she first woke up. What is he searching for when he looks at her? Does he realize he's doing that or is she reading too much into it?

"Solas?" she calls out uncertainly when his somber gaze lingers a moment too long.

He blinks slowly in response, like a tired old halla listening to its owner speak. "Yes?"

"What do you want me to do next, Hahren?" she asks, feeling like a small child again.

She can't help but notice his ears twitch upon hearing the title, almost as though he hadn't expected it. Then he began to speak again, like whatever idea had just distracted him had been completely shaken away. "Your form just now was excellent. I would like you to practice this spell until I come back."

"Come back?" She tilts her head to the side. "Come back from where?"

He straightens out his vest and smiles. "I was not lying when I told you I needed to run an errand for Adan. I will back soon, and then we will pick up where we left off."

She huffs miserably, watching him turn his back to her and leave. She's struck with a near uncontrollable urge to freeze him in place, but she knows it's only her frustration. It occurs to her that Solas doesn't actually  _have_  to tutor her like this and that he must be taking time out of more important tasks to make sure she doesn't get herself killed on the battlefield; that doesn't make it any less embarrassing, however, to essentially be told that she's a bad mage.

She was initially selected to be the Keeper's First due to her fervent dedication to the preservation of Elvhen history -her magic is secondary to that. That's not to say that she's completely hopeless as a mage -she can hold her own… most of the time. The Keeper would often threaten to have another of the clan's mages take her place as the First if she kept neglecting her training, but it was always just talk -or that's what Areina tells herself.

As she batters a dead tree with spell after spell, she can't help but become more aware of the power flowing through the anchor. While the anchor certainly isn't impeding her ability to cast like she told Solas earlier, she had been telling the truth about it making her magic feel different. She feels like she's drawing out of a boundless well of mana, like there's more power behind her spells than there usually is. She feels like she's running on ice and picking up speed.

With a loud  _snap_ , the dead wood snaps under the barrage of ice and falls over, hitting the snow with a loud thud that shakes the ground and causes a nearby nug to shriek and scurry off as fast as its stubby legs can go. Areina halts her casting, fatigue tugging at her muscles, and stares at the tree in confusion, panting heavily.

"Perhaps your next lesson may have to be on control." Partially covered feet leave tracks in the snow as they step over the branches of the fallen tree. Solas's eyes twinkle in amusement as he approaches.

"It… That was an accident!" Areina explains, hugging Solas's staff in mortification.

"A very strange accident," he teases.

" _Banal alin y Fen'harel_ ," she says with a reassuring smile, parroting an old amusing saying Keeper Deshanna would tell her whenever something happened that scared Areina.  _Nothing is stranger than the Dread Wolf._

Solas's face sinks, and for a moment, Areina fears she's said something wrong. She had only wanted to lighten the mood. He clears his throat and then says, "You look exhausted, da'len. Let us resume our lessons tomorrow morning. I should probably go assist Adan at the clinic."

Her eyes follow him curiously as he takes his staff from her and walks away. No farewell, no smile. Did he not understand what she had told him? Had she said it wrong? She isn't the best at speaking Elvhen, but she's much better than all the other elves in her clan -or at least, that's what she thinks. After seeing Solas's reaction, she's not so sure anymore.

Again, Solas is a complete mystery to her. There's something to him that she can't quite see, like she's descending a staircase that breaks off a quarter of the way down, leaving the treasures at the bottom undisturbed. She decides that she'll apologize tomorrow for whatever she must have said, and spends the rest of the day preparing for her trip to the Hinterlands.


End file.
